Between the Woods and Frozen Lake
by braunschweiger
Summary: Is he too old to say he's too young for this? Or, Arthur plays lost and found. FrUK, FACE, three-shot plus epilogue, AUish.
1. First

He wakes up feeling approximately two thousand years older and detesting the Republic of France. Not entirely a new way to greet the morning, except for maybe the national-driven hatred, but generally it was shaping up to be a regular Tuesday, 04:00.

Flight from Heathrow to de Gaulle in two hours for a book launch in Paris in four. The book launch? Fine, he has long lost the energy to air grievances over his work. He wrote the book, he does the promotion, he gets the pay out- so be it. But Paris? _At 08:00?_ Good god. Too early to be discussing literary allegories and definitely too early to be speaking _French._

The approximately two thousand years sitting on his shoulders, as previously stated, are an unwelcome but loyal companion. As he heaves out of bed and moves to the joining bathroom, turning on the bath faucet and breathing in the building steam, he ponders it. Lately, time and living have seemed heavier, punishing. He's only twenty seven- Londoner for four, author for six, scowling for all. Maybe that was it? His time honored traditions and lifestyles of being an absolute grump are finally corrupting his poor, unfortunate soul? Bah.

04:14. _Bonjour, je m'appelle Arthur Kirkland et je veux dire_ \- no, _je veux vous parler_ \- no, fuck.

* * *

The flight is quick, unaffected by delays or irritations, and Arthur lands in Paris generally without any trouble except that he's automatically consumed with hatred.

If he takes the time to brood over it, which he does when he stands at luggage claim surrounded by conversations in rapid French, he thinks it can be rooted in the people. The lofty discussions they have, the carefree lives they live, the emphasis on love and life and _wine_. He abhors it, the casual passions they have for art and beauty. They all think they are gorgeous, lovers of every man and woman, with a pleasant façade hiding chilled judgement beneath it. The French are all the same and they offer him nothing, not a single pleasant person, not a single pleasant experience.

He estimates his three nights four days in Paris will be just another distasteful experience with Continental culture, days spent in a work grind but without the comfort of his own bed to return to. He will do his job as he always does, diligently and so damn enthusiastically you would never guess that this wealthy and successful author is actually a miserable and disagreeable crab. He expects to gain nothing from his time, nothing from his work, nothing from this bastard city.

That he would find any benefit in this humid Parisian May? It would be unfathomable. So unfathomable, in fact, that when he picks his suitcase up from the lineup he makes an exaggerated show of slamming it onto the ground and yanking the handle up.

He scoffs. Ridiculous.

* * *

It's Day Three of promotion in Paris and Arthur, just as he predicted, is roughly one hundred and two percent ready to swim back to England. Another 06:00 alarm, downstairs in 30, on the _Champs Élysées_ within an hour. Blessedly, it's his last day of suffering and he isn't needed until the afternoon so he takes the opportunity to find a coffee shop, one busy enough to hole himself up and be left rightly alone. He blunders his way through French to order a mug of Earl Grey (god is good and merciful) and wedges himself in between a buttercup painted wall and a café table for one.

Arthur sighs contentedly, a rare Arthurian expression, and takes a moment to appreciate the solitude. Deep in the back of a Parisian cafe with the promise of a simple _je ne parle pas français_ if he is approached, only a man sketching in a booth to his left and a woman rapidly typing on her laptop two tables in front of him, disconnected from the world by a set of earbuds.

The tea is bitter and strong, it could make him cry; separated from home and peace by a Channel and twenty four hours but at least we have Earl Grey, huh? Oh Paris, what a shit show. French promotion for an English book? What kind of setup is that? Furthermore, it's like they expect him to-

 _"Je suis désolé. Vous semblez très familier, où avez vous été à l'école?"_

The man that had been sketching in the booth to his left stands before him, dignified brows furled in question. He has long, butter colored hair pulled loosely into a knot at the nape of his neck and elegant, high features. Pronounced cheekbones, smooth jawline, slim nose: truly, he is classically handsome, a Frenchmen that you can just _feel_ knows what kind of pants he can drop with an extended glance and a man who surely utilizes his powers mightily.

Odd. Unfortunately, truly unfortunately, he seems awfully familiar.

" _Je ne_... uh, _parle-_ "

"Ah, you are English?"

Naturally. Paris can choke.

"Yes. I'm sorry, can I help you? I don't have much time before I must return to work so…" he lies.

"Ah, _oui,_ " the man nods and slides on an easy smile. "I am very sorry, but you are very familiar to me. You did not go to school in Lyon?"

Arthur silently huffs through his nose but sets his cup down, turning to face the man fully. "No, I attended East Anglia in England."

"Oh," the man leans back on his heels and seems disappointed, maybe detecting the threads of venom that lace Arthur's tone. Then, planting his feet again, " _Alors!_ What did you say your name was?" Or, maybe not.

"I didn't," huffing again but starting to believe in killing with kindness, "my name is Arthur."

"Just Arthur?"

"Just Arthur." Not believing in abandoning pettiness. Never that.

"Okay, 'Just Arthur'." Somehow, because god is evil and merciless, the man takes his name as an invitation, pulling the chair opposite of Arthur out and lightly placing himself in it, ignoring Arthur's hiss of, _"don't sit."_

"My name is Francis Bonnefoy," he introduces himself.

"Ah, yes, pleasure." Sure, whatever. Arthur picks up his tea and takes a long sip, bothering only with a quick glance at Francis Bonnefoy over the rim of his mug.

It is just a bit unsettling, truly. This man is not a vision of any period of Arthur's past nor a reminder of someone he knows in passing. He is like a phantom, a representation of a dream, like a word on the tip of your tongue just out of reach but yet to materialize. He does not know any Frenchmen, anyone associated with any Frenchmen- he barely knows French at all. This man, though, he is certain is not a French stranger in a Paris café, as much as Arthur wants him to be. He seems like, well, he seems an old acquaintance or a friendly former adversary. Like a long departed man making his awaited grand return to the stage of Arthur's tragically humorous life.

"I just cannot place you, I am very sorry. It is bothering me greatly."

Well, he might as well get the obvious out there. This man is an oddity but that doesn't mean he wants anything to do with him or any of the nonsense he is spouting. Like a Band-Aid.

Sigh tally: three. "I am an author? My full name is Arthur Kirkland, I am here in Paris for promotion work."

He dares to look at Francis, to study his face for any flashes of recognition. He doesn't though and just sees Francis, this French ghost with powder blue eyes and wind swept hair, eyebrows drawn in graceful confusion.

"No, I have never heard of you," he flicks his hand to further dismiss the idea then places it under his chin, narrowing his eyes as if to peer at Arthur.

Alright, and a bit of an asshole.

"Oh!" Arthur exaggerates his relief in venomous sarcasm that just breezes over Francis, still watching Arthur intently. "Well I am beyond relieved that you have, 'never heard of me'."

"Oh, _pourquoi?_ That seems to be an odd wish to have," Francis fires back without pause.

Arthur takes a well deserved moment to wade into his temper, seeing a brief flash behind his eyelids of springing up from what was his spot of Parisian peace, taking his mug of beloved Earl Grey and-

Francis' lips are curled into a smirk that only the devil may care about, so reckless and so careless. He saw a lone Englishman drinking tea in the darkest, loneliest corner of the busiest, brightest café and it only seemed _right_ and _good_ to start an argument with him- _à cœur vaillant rien d'impossible._ Arthur's two thousand year backpack feels just a little bit heavier but looking at Francis, then settling his eyebrows into a comfortable and terrible scowl, Arthur himself feels just a bit more right. Like maybe his two thousand years are a home, one that he once grew and learned and loved in but he hasn't been there in a long time. He hasn't forgotten; if played again he would remember all the words, he just hasn't thought about it in a while. It would be nice to go home. He loved that song.

Arthur blinks and Francis is still in front of him. He has two thousand year old eyes, of love and loss and triumph and gore, but he has a devious smile as young as a child, knowing and confident.

A wall of acid has settled in Arthur's stomach and he's overwhelmed with dread, the kind you feel between sleeping and waking, convinced the nightmare you just lived is real and you're waking up to a world where you must find the conclusion to all the consequences.

"Well, it is very nice to meet you or see you again Arthur Kirkland."

Francis stands, gathers his things and departs, uninterested in Arthur's unresponsiveness.

Arthur just stares into his cooling tea, feeling completely broken. Maybe, though, he just found a piece.

He misses his 09:00 flight the next morning.

* * *

It takes him approximately nine days to find Francis again.

Four of them were spent lying in his hotel bed simply staring at the ceiling, determining how cold the water of the River Seine could truly be. It isn't until 22:34 on the fourth night that Arthur Kirkland remembered that he's fucking Arthur Kirkland, not a Spaniard gone too long without a siesta, and spends the next two days swept away by the internet.

Francis Bonnefoy sketches for a studio in the 18th Paris Arrondissement but beyond that, Arthur is clueless. He gets the guts to find the small art studio on Night Seven but finds it dark and unpopulated, so instead he tumbles his way through the French language yet again to buy dinner at a small grocery and returns to his hotel disheartened.

Day Eight and the Arthur Kirkland Anger Train pulls into station, wandering Paris without aim or purpose. He utterly refuses to attempt any diplomatic French with anyone, even refusing conversation with Anglophones that dare approach him. It's all beneath him, all beneath his cloud of fury and unjustness.

Day Nine and he's thoroughly exhausted. He has spent the last week plus two confused, angry, and grieving for a life that he's not even sure he once lived yet. He simply knows what he feels and what he feels is weight, the weight of years and loves and losses and years. He also knows that Francis Bonnefoy, that French fool, is a key and in order for the lock to open you must have the key.

What he also knows is that he's still in bloody fucking Paris. Good fucking grief.

* * *

18:00 Day Nine finds him before _Sacré-Cœur_ in an unusual Arthur position: sitting directly on the steps, gazing out over the city that sits below him. Well, the admiring maybe, but Paris being beneath him is an Arthurian trademark.

Enough is enough, certainly. It was an unusual adventure these past few days, maybe Age Thirty is looming just a little bit closer on Arthur's peripheries, but gallivanting across the city in the name of some vague epiphany has become ridiculous. Even further, stalking a man he met very briefly on a regular Thursday morning in France is bordering on psychotic.

He didn't even want to be here! Hasn't he been pining for London since touch down? Didn't he want Francis Bonnefoy gone since the moment he spoke? Edging on two weeks in a city he wants vaporized spending the entire time hunting down a man he wants nothing to do with. Maybe he's gone truly mental this time. _It was bound to happen,_ he can hear his editor laughing at him now, _stick so far up your ass it's wiggling its way into your brain._ So it goes. Here's a Xanax and you are under strict orders to never visit France again. Sir, yes sir.

11:00 flight tomorrow de Gaulle to Heathrow. Spend a week bathing in being English- scones, Graham Norton, so much Earl Grey he could drown. Forget what happened in Paris, never go back. Whatever forgotten time he is burdening he's simply not the man for the job. Maybe in another world, another life, Arthur Kirkland conquers all- but not in this one. He doesn't have a lot of clarity in his life, barely any, but he does have some and what he has he'd like to keep. Lose it all with the idea of gaining more or risk never getting what you had back. He chooses to walk with what he has.

Arthur stands and brushes off his trousers, pondering his last dinner in Paris. A small one, maybe from a little stand intended for tourists. Back to his hotel, round up the mess he's made into his tattered black suitcase. Bedtime 22:00, alarm at 07:00.

"Arthur Kirkland, as I live and as I breathe."

Arthur Kirkland's fingers were grasping by the whites of his knuckles onto his little slice of clarity, normalcy, and Francis Bonnefoy came along with a smirk, pried his fingers off and plunged him into the void below.

"You can just say, 'live and breathe', you don't have to repeat the pronoun."

Francis slides up next to him, the easy smile Arthur's familiar with by now curling his lips. His hair is pulled into a tighter knot than when Arthur saw him previously but is still effortless, like he simply woke up as a dream of a French lover, _je suis désolé mes chéries que je suis si parfait._ He's wearing a sort of artist fatigues, pulled up to his elbows and brushed with streaks of charcoal and pastels. He looks happy and light.

"Ah, I am sorry my friend. My English was never very good."

Arthur wants to fire back that they are not and never have been friends, but he's feeling just a little bit blessed so he holds his tongue.

"What are you doing here?" he asks instead. A genuine question with just a flavor of rudeness, just his style.

"I live here," Francis replies, amused. "What are you doing here?"

"No, I mean-" Arthur sighs in exasperation. "I mean at the Basilica. Don't Parisians avoid tourist traps like they're landfills?"

"Ah, yes, most of them. I like to walk here on my breaks, though." He turns his head to the left where the city lies before them, beginning to be dusted in violet as dusk hovers close. "A good view, for tourists or not, no?"

Arthur would respond but Francis' presence is just starting to catch up with him, leaving him feeling utterly unsure of what to do with himself. He has so many questions and so many things he wants to say and, Christ, the man he's been consumed with for days is standing right there, so close to touch, gazing out on his blasted city with eyes only of love.

Francis much catch Arthur staring because he turns back with even more amusement than before lighting up his features. "So, you did find out why we are familiar with each other?" he asks.

Arthur clears his throat and breaks Francis' gaze, looking out to Paris himself. His heart is pounding- if he may be excused, he doesn't believe he gave express written consent for his heart to go off without him?

"I don't believe I suggested I had ever met you, you only thought that you had met me."

"No," Francis says sagely with just a hint of humor. "But I could tell."

They lapse into silence and Arthur much too terrified to remove his gaze from the building he has pinned down with his eyes. The view, his savior. Thanks, Paris, you wicked bitch, but the irony is not funny.

Francis Bonnefoy is not funny. The dread cemented at the bottom of his stomach is not funny.

"Would you like to take dinner? There is a restaurant down the street if you would like to join me."

Arthur isn't really coherent enough to respond so he simply follows Francis down the steps and to the right, joining with a path overrun with shrubbery. The path runs parallel to the steps leading back to the church, but this one slants downward and exits the church grounds. Arthur follows Francis in a haze, Francis one step ahead of him and oblivious to Arthur, numb and slowly suffocating.

 _Il a pris beaucoup de temps, mais je t'aime. Je t'aime aux extrémités de la terre et au dos. Ce n'est pas toujours dit, mais c'est vrai. Aussi vrai que mon sang, aussi vrai que mes os._

Just before they reach the end of the path and exit onto the street, they pass an English couple. It happens fast and Arthur can only catch a few words. They are discussing dinner in long languid words, maybe from Northumberland with their deep Northern English vowels and then, they pass, off to the church and out of Arthur's presence.

It's like a switch. Suddenly, gloriously, he can breathe.

"Francis."

The man stops and raises an eyebrow, not offended but merely curious. He raises the second to join the first, though, when Arthur steps in front of him and meets his eyes, intent and clear.

"Arthur, wha-"

"How old do you feel?"

Francis doesn't understand and twists his face accordingly, not yet pulled in by the gravity that has Arthur grounded.

"I am twenty nine years old, but I do not-"

Arthur shakes his head and moves forward, placing his hands on the sides of Francis' face- palms in the hollows of his cheeks, fingers on the tops of his temples, thumbs on the apex of his cheekbones.

"Francis," Arthur murmurs, eyes intent on the man. He is surprised, eyes wide and lips parted, understanding blurred. "What do you feel?"

And Francis' eyes close and he breathes. Arthur traces the man's cheekbones with his thumbs, follows his hairline with his fingertips, watching his eyelids tremble.

Finally, he exhales, devastated.

"Years," Francis whispers. "Years."

Broken, but maybe he's just found a piece.

The man's eyes open and Arthur lets himself feel it, the weight. Of this moment, of the past nine days, of the last two thousand years. Francis is still confused, nine days behind in his epiphany, but he feels it too now and Arthur can only hold Francis' face and let his eyes water. Another set of hands joins Arthur's and curls around them, thumbs stroking down the middle ligaments. He focuses on his hands, their hands. To him, right now, they're the only thing that's real.

He makes his 11:00 flight, but books another seat.

* * *

They met, or met again, in the dawn of May. May and June are spent picking up bits and pieces, apart for two weeks and together for one, nights that stretch into mornings. Talking, remembering, but mostly just being terrified. They don't figure out a lot, nothing solid to hold onto or anything that puts a name to these lives they've gained. They know their names, the lives they've led for almost three decades, and the presence of each other. What they also know is that they're much older than what their bodies can represent or their minds can comprehend. They have stories haunting them; parallels that are just out of reach but steady enough to almost feel like home.

July and August pass and Arthur knows this: Francis Bonnefoy loves him. Has maybe always loved him, has maybe loved him for thousands of years. In this life and on this earth Arthur Kirkland and Francis Bonnefoy fell in love over a long and warm summer, but they're pretty sure it's been longer than that. Through hatred and theft, through strife and defeat. For ages, for ages.

It has taken a long time, but I love you. I love you to the ends of the earth and back. It is not always told, but it is true. As true as my blood, as true as my bones.

* * *

He wakes up to an idea, a dying breath from his departed dream. 03:42, Monday morning, November.

Waking up at the godforsaken hours of the morning is not an entirely unheard of experience, usually generated by the fussy sleeper to his left. Typically the issue is solved with a swift kick to Francis' shin and a haul of the comforter to the right side of the bed- Voila! Golden until an hour when living is a bit more reasonable.

This time, though, Arthur feels no disturbance. Francis is breathing deeply and soundly, face pressed into his pillow but all together solid and silent unlike the restless sprawl Arthur is so accustomed to. He even drifts his hand to brush Francis' shoulder, ensuring his innocent slumber and still, soundless. Nevertheless he grips the corner of the comforter and yanks it comfortably, just for good measure.

Then, he ponders. For a long time he stares at the wall ahead and searches, dissecting meanings and ideas, pulling thoughts that weigh heavy and discarding the rest. He does this until 05:54 and he can't lay in his bed anymore, consumed with something confusing and awful.

Francis finds him two hours later sitting in the living room, alone and frozen. He looks lost, like he took a wrong turn somewhere along the way and simply cannot figure out where it all went wrong. It leaves Francis terrified.

"Francis," he murmurs. "We left them behind."

Francis approaches slowly, settling in a crouch before Arthur and placing a hand on his knee, gentle and open.

"Who? Arthur, who did we leave behind?"

Arthur reaches forward and splays his fingers along Francis' neck and jaw, searching his eyes desperately.

"They were brothers, do you remember?"

And Francis thinks about brothers, thinks about children. Distant, independent, stronger than the whole of the old world combined. He thinks about twins, about two boys with hair of wheat and eyes towards the sky, closer to each other than either Francis or Arthur could ever hope to imitate. He imagines a French child, gentle in his words but _fierce_ and _frightening_ in his actions. He thinks about legacy and posterity and about devotion and support. Then, he thinks of family. He had one, once. It was small and it was hard but, it was good.

And Francis remembers.

* * *

 _And thus begins the longest thing I've ever written in my life, my ridiculous sprawling love letter to my eternal number one fam._

 _Unnecessary (and longest) notes as follow:_

 _I purposefully made Francis' dialogue a little whack, modeled after how I sometimes translate English to French in my head (and in papers lol). Like, perfectly understandable, but a little clunky and odd. Anyways, my English grammar is not awful I'm just purposefully terrible._

 _On a similar note, I apologize for the French that I'm not translating. The little phrases are generally pretty unimportant they just add some ~flair~ and the stuff that means anything gets translated into English eventually in the chapter. I'm sorry I'm difficult._

 _I changed their traditional ages just for kicks, especially with the kids coming up. I never really enjoyed their original ages being so young._

 _Finally, apologies to the City of Paris. Ily and you're not shitty, really!_

 _Anywho! My precious beautiful boi! Next!_

 _Thanks for reading!_


	2. Second

They leave as soon as they're ready, which is the last Saturday in November.

They had argued, naturally, over which one to find first. Alfred, Francis argued, could be anywhere. The boy was always a wanderer, if he were still too long in the dirt he began to itch. To Alfred, his home was anywhere, from California to the New York Islands. His thoughts, his moods, and his dreams were never easy to understand and they were never easy to pin down. Francis believed he knew the boy would be the same.

But Arthur knew. He would be in Virginia just as Alfred had always been, drawn to the coast and the fields and the presence. It was half way North and half way South: a center in the midst of chaos, the oldest medium he knew. Virginia had been his home for years, hundreds of them, and whether Alfred was aware of it or not he would be there, at his home, at his genesis. Arthur was in London, Francis was in Paris- Alfred would be in Virginia.

Then, Arthur argued the same about Matthew. He believed that Alfred had a home, and so did Matthew, but where Alfred was loyal, Matthew had loyalties. To the southern border: where the people settled and where the culture thrived. The national stage, the reigning culture, and ultimately, the English. Then, to the east: the first and oldest home. Not where the people are united but where they're strongest; not where the culture dominates but where it's the most powerful. The history of lilies, the oldest Canada, and ultimately, the French. Arthur could never hope to imagine on which side the boy fell, just as Francis had argued for Alfred, anywhere from Sea to Sea. Matthew did not take sides, he compromised. He did not break, he embraced.

But Francis knew, as Arthur has realized by now he should've known. Montreal, the only place where he could ever be true and the only place he ever felt stable. A home to French and a friend to English: a center in the midst of chaos, the brightest medium he knew. Just as Virginia was to Alfred, Quebec was to Matthew; and truly, they were twins, two of the same whole and too alike to not look to one for where the other would follow. Francis knew, not out of wishful thinking or blind optimism, but out of trust. Matthew would be where the world spun steadiest and that was Montreal, had been for hundreds and would be now.

In the end, they book two tickets from Heathrow to Reagan, Saturday 13:00. The decision is made late Thursday night, after long argument and hesitation, but ultimately it comes down to which of the two will make finding the other easier. The question isn't devotion to the task, never that. The one will fight viciously, an untempered and unstoppable riot; the other will set the ends of the galaxy ablaze, from one annihilated end to the other. Those boys will stop at no wall, no strife or sake, to find each other again- of that Arthur and Francis are entirely confident.

Their decision comes down to this: simply, Alfred is louder.

* * *

"It's bloody fucking Paris all over again."

" _Pardon?_ "

"Nothing, dear." Really, though. He might as well be in Paris, at least that was Europe. Americans are starting to make him queasy.

It's Day Eleven in Arlington and, because everything is set to god's wicked and masterful plot, they have nothing. Admittedly, they came in without really a plan, hoping only that maybe they would land in the United States and just feel a _tug_ in the right direction. Alfred could be buying coffee on the corner outside the airport, he would recognize them instantly, and boom! Family brought together and off to Quebec within the hour.

Maybe Arthur should just stop having dreams. It'd be easier.

They're just sitting down at a café for lunch, booth tucked in the back and only one woman in the vicinity to their right, tapping away at a laptop. The walls are not yellow, fortunately, and to the left of them is a window, not a man sketching in charcoal. If Alfred pops up in the window during their lunch, though, that would be convenient. Except, definitely not funny. Arthur has lost a lot of his sense of humor since this whole thing started; he's now less interested in laughing at the goofiness life and more interested in telling it, unequivocally, where it can shove its cute jokes.

"Arthur," Francis starts after the server takes their orders. He knows that tone, gentle and patient beyond lifetimes. He is about to suggest something that Arthur is going to shoot down immediately but in the end Francis will win. He knows it and he hates it.

"No," he nips it in the bud right away. Take that! "I know, Francis, I do. But we agreed, Alfred for Matthew. We agreed! I will not-"

"You act as if you are the only one who wants to find that child!" Francis cuts Arthur off, hissing with a fierce glare of disapproval. Arthur takes a moment to study him, to evaluate the anger flushing Francis' features, then to acknowledge the hurt that lies beyond it.

And Arthur pushes himself back in the booth and backs down, displaying a rare moment of apology.

Arthur and Francis had always had their respective twin. It was natural, and as much as Arthur and Alfred delighted in spiting each other, that was who they were. Their relationship had always revolved around hurt, then comfort; a loyal mentality of the only person who gets to kill him is _me_. And no matter how much Arthur lived simply to deny it, Alfred was his legacy, his mark. The one thing he could point to and say, either awful or wonderful, that was what he left behind.

But Francis was not indifferent and Arthur knew this well. He was anxious to find Matthew, his own piece of posterity, but Alfred was his luminary. Francis shaped him where Arthur could not, or would not, in the ultimate act of revenge: taking Arthur's perfect child and making him _better_. Francis had watched Alfred grow as long as Arthur had, was as influential as Arthur was, and when Alfred was a lost child alone in an unkind world, Francis was his friend. Arthur shaped the boy, but Francis modeled him into a man.

And Francis was consumed, just as Arthur was. Alfred was not his child, he was their child. Arthur knew better.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs. "You know I do not believe that."

Francis sighs and also backs down, combing his hair back with his fingers, up and out of his face.

"I know. I know, but it stands that we have been here almost two weeks with nothing. I am not suggesting we move on, no. But, _mais, Arthur_. We must either change tactics or he is not here and we must look elsewhere."

Arthur doesn't like it but he's nothing if not a pragmatist. He knew Virginia was truly nothing more than a hunch and that Francis was right, Alfred was home anywhere and being unaware that he is he could be in Milwaukee, could be in Alaska for all anyone knows. He has already given great thought to Boston and New York and the more he thinks, the more he's convinced. The East Coast is long and sprawling but it's just the beginning. If they have to move state to state, city to city, from Washington to Houston to San Francisco they can. They will.

Arthur nods and reaches out to give Francis' hand a brief squeeze in acknowledgement. Their food comes shortly after and they carry on with lunch just as they would any other day. On the way out Francis grabs a Washington newspaper ("Always practicing your atrocious language just for you, _mon beau cher_.") and snatches Arthur's hand when he's not looking.

* * *

Just as if they're roughly eighty years old, at 20:30 they start getting prepared for bed in the hotel room that's been home for the last eleven days. Tomorrow is another day of scouring, this time south to Alexandria to see if there are any clues that can be picked up there. Just the thought of asking around, digging through data for a single crumb of information is exhausting, but it's become routine during their time here. Wake, search, repeat. Whoever spoke the words "searching tirelessly" is a wholesome ignorant fool.

Arthur is washing his face in the bathroom and Francis is sitting cross legged on their bed, reading the newspaper he picked up earlier in the day. He speaks aloud occasionally, mentioning a humorous story about a dachshund racing competition or asking what a particularly American slang term means, but mostly he reads hungrily and mutters under his breath in French. Arthur leaves the bathroom to retrieve his toothbrush and asks Francis what he's going on about, but the man tosses his hand in dismissal at Arthur. Outwardly, he huffs and sneers fiercely at the brush off but, despite himself, smiles when he turns his back to return to the bathroom.

He's just about to spit out a mouth full of water when Francis calls to him. His voice is raised but is without significant trace of alarm, so Arthur continues his brushing and simply grunts in acknowledgment.

"Where is George Washington University?"

This, sadly, requires more than a grunt so Arthur spits out his final handful of water and caps his toothbrush, tossing it towards his suitcase on his way back towards the main room.

"It's in Washington, close to the Mall," he replies without much thought, moving to the other side of the bed and not sparing Francis a glance. "Why?"

Francis doesn't respond and remains frozen in his spot on the bed. Arthur doesn't take notice until he takes his own spot, leaning back to look at Francis, and then stops. In the span of a teeth brushing and a few steps, something has changed. Something has happened.

And Francis turns to him, face bright and eyes shining.

"I have found him."

In faster than a breath Arthur's eyes dart down to the paper sprawled before them. It's a crowd of words and ink but in the bottom right there's a short report that Francis' fingers lay mutely next to. The whole thing is no bigger than an ad for a yard sale and the bolded letters of the headline is long but neat.

 _23 Year Old, Alfred Jones, Overcomes Struggle to Become Recipient of a Masters of Computer Science at GWU_

And Arthur looks back at Francis, so shocked he feels like maybe he's dying.

"You found him."

Francis just nods, at a loss on how to grasp this unexpected conclusion to their unexpected adventure. He nods, grins, and accepts Arthur's embrace when he leans forward in exhilaration.

Too shocked to think much about the uphill struggle that now lies before them, definitely too shocked to actually process the headline. Alfred Jones? A Master's Degree? Who'da thunk?

* * *

It's the second week of December and George Washington University has a week left before the semester ends and the University empties. In other words, Arthur and Francis have a week to find their wandering boy before he disappears back into obscurity.

They are not and will never consider themselves desperate but sometimes... trying times call for trying measures. With the reluctant consciousness but steadfast refusal to admit that their actions are bordering on stalking a University student who does not technically know them but had in a previous life or whatever, Francis calls the computer science department posing as an undergrad to ask where Alfred might be so that he may answer a question. The representative, in a mildly concerning fashion, cheerfully directs him to Alfred's graduate advisor who, also in a concerningly helpful way, tells him that Alfred TAs on Mondays and Wednesdays but often camps out at the library for the rest of the week as a sort of unofficial office hours. Francis just barely remembers to thank the man for his time before hanging up, turning to Arthur looking like he just found solid gold bullion in his soup.

"You look like you just found solid gold bullion in your soup," Arthur tells him flatly, stark in contrast to the uncontrollable wringing of his hands.

And though Francis wants to explode with all this life changing information, in rising to Arthur's taunts he is loyal to a fault.

"That sounds awful and I would think gold is very bitter tasting. Although, it might be one of your better tasting creations. Overall, eight out of ten."

* * *

So, they too, camp out at the campus library.

It's like being at Uni all over again and Arthur goes to lengths to hide his delight but, as Francis tells him repeatedly, utterly fails at it. They pick a table not completely in the back but well out of the way, one with the best vantage point, and then they sit and they wait. Students flutter around them, many looking half dead and wearing the same pair of sweatpants for three days in a row, hunkering down with their laptops and their textbooks and typing furiously. Ah, winter finals. The most wonderful time of the year.

Arthur takes the time to work on his own laptop, responding to emails and inquiries and, eventually, grasping for his own inspiration. The book he released at the end of spring has been doing jolly and, honestly, a lot of the emotions he usually feels when releasing his work have escaped him. He supposes he's been busy with other stuff. But it's been over six months now and his editor is starting to lose her subtlety when asking how things are going. He doesn't necessarily feel too much pressure to get working, like maybe he would if he had never met an artist in Paris, but work has started to hover on the corner of his concerns. Right now, he has priorities, immense priorities, but eventually he'll have to return to the life of Arthur Kirkland, English author, hater of Paris. At least, until then, his mental numbness has company.

Francis spends his time mostly alternating between reading and doodling. He picks up a couple French language works at first, burying himself in being a Frenchman, not a man with an English companion at an American university in the capital of the United States. _Trop d'anglais, s'il vous plaît, ayez pitié!_ He loses interest quickly though and finds a newspaper, snatches a pen from the front desk, and with the illusion that he's actually catching up on current events instead begins an elaborate landscape within the margins. Arthur glances over at about an hour in to see an entire section nearing to be completely blacked out. Francis looks up, smirks at him and winks, then leans back into his work. Okie dokie.

As much as Arthur enjoys his first day amongst all the students and the work and the vague feeling of impending doom, their first Thursday at the library is disappointingly without results. They leave when it's already well into evening and their stomachs are rumbling too loud to justify staying. Tomorrow is another day, another opportunity and they're so close, too close. Alfred will rear his ugly head if it's the last thing Arthur makes sure happens on this earth.

* * *

They approach the library the next day, Friday, with realism tempering their enthusiasm. Tomorrow is Day Fourteen in the United States and by now they're no strangers to disappointment. They have long come to understand that they must simply be patient and vigilant, believing only that their perseverance will yield results. Most likely they will not find him today, most likely they will not find him tomorrow, but it's the persistence that counts. Search today as hard as you can, make this Friday mean something, then try again tomorrow.

So, when they reach the second floor and begin moving towards the table they sat at yesterday, both stop like they've been absolutely smashed with approximately ten thousand pounds of cement bricks. Give or take a few.

There's a boy sitting at the table, laptop opened in front of him and large headphones wrapped around his head. He has blond hair of amber, feather bangs swept back and placed to the left, rimless glasses reflecting blue from the computer screen. He looks young for his age, boyishly handsome, defined but soft, an echo of dimples tucked into his cheeks. He looks like if you approached him he would automatically smile before even placing who you were, the kind of person that would laugh with delight at nothing at all.

"Alfred-" Arthur chokes but Francis snatches his wrist, pulling him back and around the corner, out of Alfred's view.

"I know, my love, I know," Francis grasps Arthur's face, eyes intent, and places pressure on his cheekbones to get Arthur's undivided attention. "Arthur, that boy has no idea who we are. We must be steady and slow, otherwise we will scare him away. We cannot jump on him, we must let him come to us."

"But how?" He whispers frantically, not yet quite steady on his own two feet. "What if he never-"

"He will, I know it."

"How do you know?" Arthur asks, broken.

Francis slips on the barest of smiles. "I know because it led me to you," he whispers, but he's confident. They both remember that, as if Arthur could ever hope to forget.

And Arthur takes a breath. He nods, pulling Francis' hands away from his face but squeezing them in thanks and Francis places the briefest of pecks just below Arthur's hairline.

This is it, the first step up the mountain.

* * *

They take another minute then move back to the common area. Only the table directly across from Alfred is open and, grateful for the opportunity to observe but less happy about the opportunity to be discovered, reluctantly and quietly settle down there. Arthur pulls out his laptop, Francis pulls out his newspaper, and they begin their watch.

Luckily, Alfred is either extremely concentrated or extremely detached, because they soon notice he is entirely oblivious. Once, a phone rings, drawing the disapproving eyes of everyone in the room- except for Alfred. Another time, Alfred reaches across his sprawl of papers, books, and bags that clutter his table for a calculator. In the process, a massive book with a title involving some sort of coding teeters then tumbles onto the floor with a sound _clap_. Again, curious glances flood in his direction and everyone notices- except for Alfred. Arthur can tell Francis wants to chuck his pen in an attempt to hit the boy square in the forehead, just to see if he'll look up. He knows better, but still, the idea is tempting.

They arrived at the library at 10:00 and now it is 14:00- four hours and without a single movement from Alfred. Francis has begun work on completely marking up another section of the paper and Arthur, for all the turmoil rolling around in his head, has already written a solid ten pages. Alfred just continues to type; not looking up, not standing, not moving, not speaking. Working, diligently and effortlessly. Arthur might even call it a miracle, a divine work itself made known on this here planet earth. Incredible.

They're both exhausted when 18:00 rolls around. Discreet spying is more awful than anything else Arthur has ever experienced, especially when your target hasn't moved in six. fucking. hours. They even started shifts an hour ago; Francis would get to stand, to walk around, yell at the top of his lungs for fifteen minutes and then he would return, sit down at his newspaper art, and Arthur would get his own turn. After his second break, though, Arthur has decided that fifteen minutes isn't good enough anymore. Time to bump it up to thirty, just long enough to maybe recite an entire presidential address or run a full five kilometers. Anything but sit and be quiet, oh god, anything but that.

Francis has just returned from his own break (thirty-four minutes, the rat!), sitting down to his right and getting settled for the next thirty (six!) minutes. Arthur waits for a few moments to avoid certain suspicion, minimizing his windows slowly and thinking about how he is going to spend his next thirty (eight) minute break. Maybe it is time to check out the café that is advertised in the basement, grab a cup of tea to tide him over, perhaps have a good cry in the process. He is nothing if not productive with his time.

But then, following god's ruthless and uncaring way, there is movement. The two men have to remember to breathe as Alfred, seven and a half hours after Arthur and Francis originally found him, pulls his headphones off and closes the laptop lid in front of him. In pieces, he picks up his clutter on the table and places it all into his blue backpack, starting with the computer and ending with the academic tome lying on the floor. And then, as quietly as he worked all day long, Alfred departs. But not before casting a glance to the table with two men trying so hard to watch, to reach, but not to push.

"Hey."

Arthur makes too much of pretending to be startled, like he was entirely unoccupied with Alfred's presence the entire time and is simply being pulled from his work. If Arthur could laugh horribly and obnoxiously at the thought he would.

Alfred looks at Arthur, to Francis, then back to Arthur. His brows furrow into a thick line, puppy-like in his confusion.

"Are you..." Alfred shifts his balance from one foot to the other, like he acted spontaneously and is now not quite so sure he chose correctly. "Do either of you work for the University? I'm sorry, I feel like I know you but I just graded so many papers that my brain is just freakin' dead." Then, like a last thought to tie it all together, "Alfred Jones, computer sci," he introduces.

Arthur, not quite sure what he's doing and not quite sure if it's right, leaps.

"Perhaps not, but I believe I know your brother? Matthew Williams? You two look so much alike."

And Alfred's brows furrow even further, looking like he's just been told the sky is truly purple after all.

"No, uh, sorry. I don't have a brother."

"Oh, my mistake then." Arthur flips his laptop closed and leaps up, not even bothering to put it back into his bag. He turns to Francis and stares at him with intent, rousing the man from where he had been sitting still as stone, then turns back to Alfred and gives an apologetic smile to the look of absolute loss on his face.

"We must be going though, good night." And Arthur flees, dragging Francis behind him, down and out and away.

They go to their rental car in the parking lot and assume their spots without thought, Francis in the driver's seat and Arthur in the passenger's. They sit there for a moment, for two, and then Francis whispers, "What now?"

And Arthur replies, "Wait for the seed to grow."

* * *

He doesn't return to them until Tuesday.

They aren't sure, so Saturday and Sunday are also spent staking out the library. It's less painful this time, thankfully, with the long awaited establishment of contact and a plan going forward already set in place. They decide to check in twice, once in the morning and once in the late afternoon for an hour each, knowing that if Alfred is to show he will be there for at least one of their check ins, alone and unmoving, almost certainly for hours. Thanks to the information from the oblivious graduate advisor, they know Monday can be taken off from haunting the library. Their next stop is Tuesday, the day before GWU's fall semester ends, at 10:00.

When they arrive in the morning to their same floor and same spot, Alfred is there, at the center of the hurricane that touched down at his table, looking like he's achieved a grand total of twelve hours of sleep over the last ninety six hours.

And when Arthur and Francis settle at a table a few down from their usual spot in an attempt at subtlety, Alfred actually looks up at them. His eyes are wide, lips parted, and he watches them until he's caught staring. It's a cute twist on the game of who's-watching-who they've been playing since the previous Friday.

After a minute Francis reaches over to Arthur's hand underneath the table, giving it a lightning fast but hard squeeze.

He thinks, maybe, that he's done it.

They make a terribly dedicated show of being nonchalant, laptops and newspapers opened with care, pretending at length that today is just another day in their completely ordinary routine. Stalking and harassment? Never! If anything, he harassed us first.

So they wait, falling into their oddly comfortable custom. Arthur actually, miraculously, gets some work done and Francis has just about turned a week old American journal into a fully sketched forest growing out of headlines that report increases on taxes. They watch lowly, out of the corners of their vision, and it quickly becomes apparent that Alfred is not accomplishing the same.

In twenty minutes he's taken his glasses off thrice, letting them clatter to the table below in order to massage the bridge of his nose. His headphones often get pushed to sit around his neck and he cards his fingers through his bangs, an overall collection of fidgets and squirms. They could have chalked it up to this boy truly being Alfred, always bouncing with too many ideas and too many things to say, but the Concentration Train they had seen parked on Friday contradicted this. The boy seems uncomfortable, disturbed even, and it looks to them that this is only but a day among days of general unsettlement.

It must happen when Arthur's not paying attention because, suddenly, Francis just stops. It's not a pause in his elaborate crosshatching used to collect inspiration or thoughts, no. This is a full, hard and complete, stop. It takes a moment for Arthur to stop too, then to feel the gravity of the upcoming exchange that has already settled on Francis' shoulders. Seriously, is it the two year difference? Francis always finds out things before Arthur, it is completely unfair.

Alfred stands before them, bag slung over his shoulder and long winter jacket on but unzipped. Again, Arthur sees the disturbance on his face but closer, in greater detail this time. His brows sit low on his forehead and dark smudges trail under his eyes. His hair and clothing seem disorderly, like maybe he hasn't actually gone anywhere from bed to library and back since they last saw him on Friday. It's his eyes though, like a lovely clear blue day being hunted by dusky gray overcast and falls prey, sun and warmth swallowed up by thickness and fog. He looks like he's just lost his best friend.

"I'm sorry, I don't, um," Alfred clears his throat, clearly at a complete loss. "I don't mean to disturb you. Really, I- I don't- May I? Sit, I mean?"

Arthur nods but Francis vocalizes, gesturing to the seats across from them and folding his paper away. Arthur closes his laptop lid slowly, afraid if he's too fast or too loud this moment might shatter and Alfred will vanish.

Alfred nods himself, clears his throat again, and mumbles a thank you. He places his bag in the chair to his right and sits across from Francis, not entirely bothering with making himself comfortable. Simply sitting, stable enough to listen but open enough to flee.

"I came here, to the library, to just fuc- sorry, um, escape my apartment. It was so, so _loud_ in there. In my head," Alfred glances up from his fingers like he's just been caught chanting in tongues. He smiles, a brief one, as if to cover his tracks. "I'm sorry, that's crazy talk, I'm crazy. It's just..."

He heaves a breath, feeling his armor then letting it fall.

"You," he looks to Arthur, "you mentioned a brother? Matthew, last time I was here? I don't have a brother, seriously, but the name just set something off in my head. And I can't control it, I can't breathe. I don't know what you said but it really messed me up and I know you can't help me but, just, I don't understand. I want- I need to understand."

Francis, the better friend, the better father, and the better man reaches for Alfred's fidgeting hands. And so, because Arthur can't or Arthur won't, Francis guides Alfred home.

"You feel like you are waiting for something, like you are only waiting for a letter in the mail. It will be arriving any day and you just have to work through this week and then you'll have it by the end of the day. But it does not come at the end of the week, now it is coming at the end of the next week. You wait for it and add another week to your life, hoping it comes now- but, no, it does not. You are okay, you enjoy what you are doing in the meantime and the letter is not truly that urgent. It is still heavy, though, and it builds up in your head. You want it because you think it is going to complete your day. With the letter you will feel a little more right and a little more happy and a little more of home. Until then, though, you wait and the time gets heavier and heavier. You have been waiting for years, for _years_ Alfred, but you believe your letter will still be coming, despite the weight and despite the time. Any day, Alfred, you know it will come and then you will be safe and then you will be home."

Alfred's eyes are wet and he is shattered.

" _Francis_ ," the boy whispers and shakes his head.

Francis leans forward and grasps his hands tightly, bowing his head to connect their eyes and get his full attention.

"Alfred, we're going to find Matthew. We're going to bring him home."

* * *

 _Alfred, my kid, I've missed you so._

 _So, this one is 1k longer than the previous and I believe the next is 1k longer than this? Pft, fuck if I know!_

 _ETC ETC:_

 _Do I know anything about computer science graduate programs? Do I know anything about George Washington University? Nah! There's a café in the basement of my campus library though so GWU if you want to steal the idea… Unless you already have a café… Then that's cool…_

 _I really tried to make FrUK as old and domestic as possible which, obviously, is their natural state of being. If only I could've fit in one of them washing dishes and the other drying them, then I would've really clinched it!_

 _Okie dokie, gonna reunite my sweet children before I explode?_

 _Thanks for reading!_


	3. Third

Alfred tells them that he has to remain at school until the following Tuesday to finish up his work for finals and then the three can be off to Canada, Reagan to Trudeau at 12:00, on the 21st of December.

Therefore they have a week left in Washington and, because maybe god has grown bored of their suffering, and actual chance to relax. Alfred is busy with school for the following week and, if they're being honest, he's still a bit awkward around them.

As they tell him repeatedly, Arthur and Francis absolutely understand. They hadn't thought about it totally while on their wild goose chase for him around the D.C. Metro, but now that Alfred has returned to their little family both of them are reminded of their first few days in June with a feeling they had absolutely no idea what to do with, a deep love in their souls for an absolute stranger. And now they've completely remodeled the entire life of a twenty-three year old boy, told him that his life is grander than a knack for computers, that he does have a family after all, and that you're flying to Quebec with us to complete it just in time for Christmas. Surprise!

"Alfred," Arthur tells him once. "It took Francis and I seven months to figure any of this clusterfuck out and, regarding most of it, we're still not sure. For you, it's been less than a week. We're strangers, we know, and this is scary, we know. You need to give yourself time and it'll get better, _we'll_ get better, I swear it."

For the week after they meet and before their flight to Canada the three keep in contact and dine together often but, for the most part, Arthur and Francis give Alfred the space he needs. Instead, they take the time to actually enjoy the city that, in their almost month of being here, they haven't really looked up at once. Francis drags Arthur to one art museum, two art museums, three until enough is enough and Arthur rips the tourism guide straight from out of his hands and into the trash. In retribution, Arthur takes him on a tour of the Library of Congress and after that Francis apologizes for his art museums, "if they were anything like that dreadful hellscape." They both come to the agreement for the mutual benefit of both parties- no more museums.

On Sunday, Alfred takes them to his favorite restaurant in Washington; it's a small diner where the hostess knows Alfred by name and tells him simply that, "it's open", before Alfred directs Arthur and Francis to a small booth near the kitchen. A lamp hangs low between them and on the wall is a small picture of a firework, just to Arthur's right.

"I like this table, it's near the kitchen. You can smell everything," Alfred tells them, shrugging to their curious gazes. Not entirely answering their questions, but it's something interesting for now.

The server, who also knows Alfred by name and congratulates him on the article that led Arthur and Francis to the boy himself, asks Alfred if he wants his usual. He does, and he introduces his companions to the server by only first name, then hesitates briefly before calling them his family from out of town.

The two don't dare to say anything about it, but it kind of feels like the greatest compliment they're ever received. Merry Christmas indeed.

After Arthur and Francis place their own orders and silence fills the space, Francis shifts and looks at Alfred curiously.

"Alfred, how often do you come here?" Humor laces his tone but he's very careful to not sound like he's making fun of him.

"Uh," Alfred smiles and also shifts, like he's embarrassed. "I've been coming here since I was an undergrad. I practically wrote my entire thesis where you're sitting now," then, in not quite a mumble, "their cheeseburgers are really good."

Arthur smiles and so does Francis, then Alfred does too.

And their food is really good. Even Francis, the truest of Parisian snobs, is impressed.

It isn't until after they're finished eating, after they traverse their usual round of "This Is What I've Been Doing The Last Two to Three Decades Of My Life", that Alfred pulls out his laptop and announces with much bravado, "So! I've been snooping."

"And when you say snooping..." Arthur raises an eyebrow.

Alfred looks up and narrows his eyes, but his lips are still twisted into a smirk.

"Two academic degrees and this is the kind of discrimination I face? You should be ashamed, Arthur, you know what they say about assumptions."

Arthur and Francis just stare at him, identical looks of skepticism and suspicion on their faces.

Alfred raises his brows and supplies slowly, "they make an ass out of you and me?"

God, he liked it better when he didn't have parents.

"Fine! Like a common Kremlin agent I hacked the information using my expensive American education. I'm sorry I made our search, like, a trillion times easier. Are you happy now, mom and dad?"

They both lean back and smile, Arthur grabbing his glass of water and taking a sip. "Marginally."

"Anyways, Debbie and Nancy-"

"Who are Debbie and Nancy?"

"Debbie Downer and Negative Nancy, learn your Americanisms, Francis."

" _Je ne comprendrai jamais._ "

"Anyways, kids! Courtesy of my _elite_ training with _the CIA_ ," he continues sarcastically. "I found fifteen Matthew Williams' in the Montreal Metropolitan Area. Four of them attend various elementary schools, two of them are in nursing homes, and the remaining nine range from high school age to retirement. It took quite a bit of maneuvering- I may have accidentally started a war between the US and Canada, I'm not sure we'll see. But! I got access to the Quebec DMV, more or less. Conveniently enough, if Google Translate has served me well, only one of these Matthew Williams living in Montreal was born on July 2nd twenty three years ago." He stops when he pulls up a final window that reflects on his glasses. As Alfred spins the laptop around for Arthur and Francis to see he gives a little sigh, quirks his face into a smile, and lowers his voice- like he's about to share a secret he was told days ago but he's still in disbelief about it.

"I think the face helps."

Sure enough, a small window with the driver's license of Matthew Williams sits on the screen. His hair is a little bit longer but still a wheat blond, complexion a little bit paler but still even and soft, and his smile a little bit more reserved, but still cheerful and happy. His face, though, is absolutely identical to the one that hovers above him in real life. The dark brows, the flare of their cheekbones, right down to the glasses on the identical bridges of their noses.

They thought, chose him first because of even, that Alfred could lead them to Matthew. They weren't sure how and they weren't sure when, what they knew is that he would provide the strongest push to make them whole. But whatever they expected of Alfred, to help Matthew or to help them, it was not this. To a picture of the boy right before them, to the very street on which he lives.

Alfred must see the haze that has settled over them from surprise and disbelief because he speaks low and careful.

"He's a second year med student at the University of Montreal. He'll be on rotations at the Maisonneuve-Rosemont Hospital throughout the holidays," he murmurs.

They sit in silence for a beat, then for two, only their breaths heard above the general hum of the restaurant until Francis snaps out of it and leans forward to grasp one of Alfred's hands in both of his.

"Good work, Alfred," he gasps, finding it difficult to convey his gratitude in mere English words. "Thank you."

Alfred grins widely and gives a short nod, allowing Francis to occupy his hand a bit longer. Then, he looks to Arthur for his own approval, and only with that does Arthur snap out of his stupor.

"That's-" he speaks lowly, taking his own time to find the appropriate words. "Invaluable, brilliant Alfred." He allows the moment another weighted silence to occupy the table, then shakes his head and lets a wry smile to take his features. "If only I could have replaced Francis with you, we would've been back home before December even began."

Francis, ever loyal to the cause, pulls his brows low and takes his hands back from Alfred to give Arthur a swift stab in the ribs with his elbow.

"If I had not found you in May where would you be now? Still stalking me around the 18th Arrondissement? Eating miserable little sandwiches from the miserable little grocery down the street from the Basilica?"

And Arthur narrows his eyes fast, cheeks tightening in preparation to deliver his words dripping in the poison Francis is so accustomed to by now.

"Were you _watching_ me? The entire time I was looking for you in Paris you were stalking me _yourself_?"

"No, I only know my dear cantankerous and afflicted Arthur too well."

Alfred is chuckling but takes the moment of focus away from him to pack up his stuff and start shrugging on his winter coat. Just as Arthur's fingers start twitching dangerously closer to Francis' throat, Alfred clears his throat and smiles, announcing his departure.

"I have to get back to grading my undergrad finals, so I'll see you both later. I'm probably going to a presentation my friend is doing tomorrow if you guys want to come along, I don't know if you've gone there yet but it's at the Air and Space Mu-"

Arthur and Francis collectively interrupt with a _no!_ that startles Alfred from his offer.

Francis realizes his rudeness first, as always, and looks to Alfred imploringly with a smile of apology.

"I am sorry, Alfred, but Arthur and I have decided it is best if we do not visit any museums together. Thank you for the offer though, it is very sweet."

Alfred still looks a little terrorized but smiles, rolling his eyes in good nature.

"Okay, you freaking weirdos, see you later then."

* * *

In an unprecedented move, they actually make a plan.

Their flight from Washington to Montreal is only ninety minutes long but that doesn't stop Alfred from taking his seat, pulling a hood low over his eyes, and promptly becoming dead to the world until the very second of touchdown. They maybe feel just a little guilty about it but Arthur and Francis use the time to plot when they can be a safe distance away from Alfred's excitement and radical ideas. It's not a matter of feeling superior or even controlling the situation. Only that they know, they've felt, and they just have the experience of being on the other side of knowledge, something Alfred doesn't know yet and something they suspect Alfred may not be able to handle.

"Arthur," Francis keeps his voice low and sensitive. "You know that when we find him, when we find Matthew, Alfred will leap on him just as you wanted to do."

Arthur sighs. "Yes, I know, but so? We can hardly _restrain_ him. Even if we keep him aware of how delicate the situation is, I don't think we'll be able to keep him from scaring Matthew away. I mean, what do you suggest we do, lie to him? Send him away while we find Matthew ourselves? Only allow him to see his brother once we've declared it safe?"

In the pause that follows Francis turns to him with an odd look in his eye. It's a gleam of turning over a thought in his head, a thought that he knows Arthur will reject.

"And why not?"

Arthur furrows his brows and almost reels back in shock.

"'Why not?' Francis? _'Why not?'_ Alfred is just starting to figure his life, figure _us_ , out again and you want to betray his trust like that? To deny him his own brother? No, Francis. It may be easier, but there has to be another way."

"I am not saying send him away," he speaks rapidly but secretively. "I am only saying that maybe we could be selective. Together we can look for Matthew and together we can find Matthew but, when it is time to make contact? We could, maybe, do that without him."

Arthur takes a second to process, to digest both his resistance and his intrigue, and after a stretch he slowly begins to nod.

"Alright, that might work."

Arthur returns back to lounging as best he can in his aisle seat before a last thought occurs to him and he reaches for Francis' hand to pull him back from reading the _Skymall_.

"But what do we tell him when they do meet? Alfred will know that we met Matthew before him and didn't say anything."

And Francis smiles a knowing smile, giving a swift pat to Arthur's hand.

"Honestly, Arthur, I think at that time it will be the least of his concerns."

* * *

So, with an agenda going forward and an address in their pockets, they arrive in Montreal with high spirits.

Francis is simply beyond himself being back in Francophone culture. He makes unnecessary rapid conversation with the cashier at a place they stop at for an early dinner and he almost refuses entirely to have any English conversation with Arthur or Alfred.

" _Tu connaît la langue française, Arthur_ ," Francis tilts his head and smiles with false inquisitiveness.

"First of all, you French bastard, barely. Second of all, I would never want to speak it with _you._ "

Francis pouts but it doesn't last long, caught back up in his native language bliss. Alfred follows absolutely none of it but doesn't look too put off, mumbling once something about Spanish credits in his undergrad but otherwise takes Arthur's silence as an opportunity to babble in English about nothing at all. Arthur usually ignores him, stewing in his own irritation towards the French-English barrier that continues to haunt him, but Alfred's filled silences are so true to form that occasionally Arthur can't help but crack the barest of smiles.

Their first night in Montreal is spent doing minimal reconnaissance. They drive to the hospital Matthew works at, then to the address listed on his driver's license. Both ventures are pretty pointless as they can't enter the hospital simply without aim and they have no way of getting into the locked apartment building, but at least it's a start of getting their bearings. When Francis turns away from the apartment building and back towards their hotel closer to downtown, they can tell by Alfred's shifting and sighing in the backseat that he wants to object.

"I think we all need some sleep and time to adjust. We will begin bright and early tomorrow," Arthur says aloud before Alfred can put a voice to his frustration.

He isn't happy, but seems to accept it.

* * *

Arthur wakes at 03:32, this time via a French elbow wedged in his ribs. He follows through with his usual kick of punishment despite Francis' obliviousness and rolls over to return to sleep. But, even with the usual satisfaction he gains from violence, it isn't enough to lull him back.

They departed from Alfred at 19:00, left to his own room despite the fire burning in his eyes that made Arthur just a bit uneasy. Though Arthur and Francis suspect they could not rival the sense of urgency Alfred feels in his own soul, they too want to make no delay in finding Matthew and finishing their months long journey. It's only that, they are tired. A month spent hunting down Alfred with barely a week to unwind before back to the races to find Matthew and their task is daunting and overwhelming. Alfred skips about with boundless energy and enthusiasm and Arthur and Francis are starting to miss tranquility and their homes across the ocean. It is not a hesitance to search for Matthew, never that, just an acceptance that they can enjoy time a bit more with their last familial addition. They have him, know where he is and when he will be there, after all. It's just a matter of introduction and with that, it seems, time was never really up to them at all. Alfred, though, doesn't seem to understand despite his lack of raising objection. He complies and follows, a working member of their team, but Arthur wonders if he won't settle for it much longer. He worries, especially when it comes to Francis' ideas of keeping Alfred out of the loop, that the different pages in which they reside will come to splinter the solidarity between them.

Arthur lies in bed for a while rolling these ideas over in his head before giving up sleep all together. He slips out of bed and pulls on a pair of loafers, resolving to a walk around the floor to empty his head of ideas and worries. He opens the door to the hotel room and walks out, turning to the right and down the hall before stopping at the sound of a TV blaring. It's Alfred's room, just one down from their own, and Arthur curiously presses an ear to the hotel door. Words aren't distinguishable but it doesn't sound like anything intelligent, maybe an infomercial or the hotel's closed circuit television.

Arthur pauses, unsure. The boy probably fell asleep to something and, as he witnessed on the plane, Alfred would sleep through a nuclear explosion. In that case, Arthur should leave it be and leave him alone. But Alfred could also be awake and, in that case, Arthur should also leave him alone. This hour of the morning is meant to be spent in solitude and whether awake and bored or unable to return to sleep, Arthur isn't sure his intrusion would be welcomed. Alfred has come leaps and bounds with his level of comfort around Arthur and Francis since they first met, so much you wouldn't even know they hadn't spent their whole lives together. Still, though, the boy needs his space from the two older and imposing men.

Arthur has become aware that since May both himself and Francis have grown sage and grand in their personalities, weighted with their knowledge and emotions that had come in bits in pieces over the summer. He can tell especially in contrast to Alfred who is just so young, has probably always been that young, and doesn't carry life heavy on his shoulders like Arthur does. In a way, it's a shame that the two still in their twenties became such old souls in such a short amount of time. But, it was who they were, wasn't it? No reason to be upset about something that always was.

Arthur shakes himself and draws his attention back to Alfred's hotel door before him, blank and unsuspecting beyond the noise behind it. A moment of consideration, then two, then he knocks. Alfred is probably sleeping anyways and passing without inquiring if he's alright would just leave Arthur sleepless longer. Knock, if only just to say he had, and then return to brooding.

The knock goes unanswered and Arthur begins to turn around, lifting his shoulders in a shrug and resolving to continue on his merry way until he hears a shuffle just beyond the wall. Then footsteps, a scuffle at the door, and finally Alfred himself appears looking tired but not too out of sorts, a look of surprise on his features.

"Arthur? What are you doing up?"

Arthur shifts, unprepared for what his actual execution of this plan was going to be.

"I, well, I heard your television. I couldn't sleep and I was passing by..."

"Yeah, I couldn't get back to sleep either," Alfred frowns slightly but covers it quickly and chuckles. "Sleeping on the plane must've gotten me out of sorts."

Arthur nods but doesn't respond, not quite sure how to venture forward.

True to character, Alfred tolerates the silence for a brief second then widens his door and offers, "Would you like to come in?"

"Oh, well, sure."

Arthur follows Alfred in quietly. Confirming his suspicions, the television blares an extended commercial for an odd piece of workout equipment before Alfred finds the remote and puts it on mute.

"So what keeps you up at night? Does this happen often?" Alfred asks, flinging himself back onto the disheveled mattress. Arthur himself sits gently down in the desk chair.

"Oh, it's Francis, who else? Man can't keep still even when he's bloody unconscious."

Alfred laughs but Arthur doesn't. His continuous sleep deprivation at the expense of a glamorously restless Frenchman is no laughing matter.

"What about you?" Arthur asks, interested in a change of subject. "Blasting the volume on the television is an odd mechanism of getting oneself back to sleep."

"Oh, yeah," Alfred says lightly. "My head gets cluttered sometimes and if the infomercials are just loud enough I can't think about anything else besides the crazy two-for-one deal I'd get for a Chillow."

"'Cluttered'? You're awfully young for a ravaged head, lad."

Alfred pulls his brows down. "Hey! I'm only four years younger than you!"

"And yet, I am so much more mature."

Alfred scowls even deeper and Arthur lets out a chuckle.

"So?" Arthur asks. "What are you so stressed about?"

"Well," Alfred sighs and leans back. "This adventure of ours is certainly not a peachy afternoon stroll."

"Boy, I swear, this is your first night in Montreal? I've been on this train since May and I got on in Paris, of all shitholes."

"What's wrong with Paris?"

" _Everything._ "

Alfred laughs and shakes his head. Arthur sighs, but then takes a moment to slip into sympathy, a rarity for him.

"I'm sorry, though, you know I don't mean it. As Francis and I have told you, we understand that this is very unusual and stressful. For us, May and June were... difficult."

Alfred nods but doesn't comment. He's learned that when it comes to those two sometimes it's better not to delve into the details.

He's silent for a moment, then, "I've been thinking a lot about Matthew."

Arthur looks to him, curious.

"It's so weird, you know? Like, he's my brother, my twin brother, and I know this. But how? And I feel so much attachment and affection towards him, but why? Really, I've never met the guy and when we meet I assume it'll just be like when you and Francis found me and he won't realize what's happening at all. I feel like I have these memories and all this time of being Matthew's brother that I miss so much, that I feel like I was removed from and that I belong there. But also, that it's just a dream. Like, I'm just waking up and I'm convinced that I have this brother who I love and who's another part of me but I'm not quite sure which is reality and which is just a dream."

Silence falls and Arthur takes the moment. He wants to formulate his words accurately and properly, then he makes sure to look at Alfred intently.

"Believe me when I say this: I know exactly how you are feeling. Also, believe me on this: your previous life with Matthew will take time to feel real and, honestly, it may never feel real at all. But then, believe me on this: you will meet him, you will both come to know each other again, and whether you remember what past time was like or not it will come to not matter. To not matter at all."

Alfred peers at him curiously.

"Is that how you feel about Francis?"

"As much as it pains me to say it, yes."

"And... me?"

Arthur looks at him earnestly.

"Absolutely."

* * *

The 22nd of December is spent much like the 21st, scouting and gathering and plotting. And surprisingly, disappointingly, they don't actually learn that much.

Alfred and Francis tailgate into the apartment building they staked out yesterday and ask the reception briefly, without trying to raise suspicion, if they could get the apartment number of a certain Matthew Williams because, well, he's just a bit flaky. Despite Francis' charm and pleading, though, the apologetic receptionist tells them she can't distribute information like that and warns them, although politely, that their friend needs to come down to retrieve them next time as tailgating into the building is not allowed. Francis smiles his apologies, thanks the young lady for her time and patience, and tugs Alfred out of the building.

"So?"

"We have been flagged. We cannot go in anymore without Matthew himself to guide us."

Alfred pauses to get a handle on his frustration, then, "So we have to settle for simply spying from our shady-ass car?"

"Yes," Francis sighs. "It appears so."

The hospital is fruitless too. Francis takes Arthur this time ("Hey, I want to go!" "You got to go last time." "But I can help!" "Do you speak French, you twit?" "Well, no." "Then shut up and stay here.") and they approach the front desk much as Francis and Alfred did at the apartment building. Francis lays on the charm, appearing only flustered and confused, and asks if Matthew is working today. The volunteer asks if he knows to what unit or physician Matthew is assigned to but Francis does not and it yields no results. She tells him that without a department or personnel to direct him to the hospital doesn't keep track of the med students, the University does, and it is conveniently closed for winter break. Francis thanks the woman a little more tersely this time and then tugs Arthur out of the building.

"We know he's here, we know exactly where he lives and exactly where he works, and he's just simply... out of our grasp?" Alfred asks incredulously.

Arthur and Francis share a look.

"So it seems."

* * *

The 23rd of December and they're actually, incredibly, losing hope. Who would've thought entering a haystack with a color coded map to the needle would prove to be more difficult than anticipated?

The previous night of staking out the apartment building had proved unsuccessful. Either, he's using his powerful teleporting abilities to beam from his workplace to his home and back or, Matthew Williams is not a twenty three year old male at all but one of several gaggles of undergrad girls that trapeze to and fro throughout the night. Either way, even with all the exits covered and a violent pact to not let each other fall asleep, Matthew is not to be seen.

So, bright and early to stalk from the hospital parking lot. This proves to be a bit more difficult due to the amount of traffic that comes in and out of the front doors, but at least they take turns hunting Matthew down from the inside too which presents an opportunity for brief warmth and nourishment. Alfred comes out once after an hour inside the hospital bearing two coffees and a tea, which is reason enough to cry, but he is also carrying bad news.

"I literally did a lap around every floor that I have access to, even asked a couple times when I could get someone to talk in English, but absolutely nothing. He could be in pediatrics, cardiology, or psychology or- he's a figment of our imagination. All are equally plausible."

He slips into the backseat and silence falls upon the three of them.

"Maybe he is on vacation somewhere?" Francis asks.

"Yeah, maybe."

"Or," Arthur murmurs. "He's not here."

"But, we have an address! A Quebec license! That is not just a hunch, Arthur. We found Alfred on a hunch, this is information."

"Alfred, are you sure your data is up to date?"

"It is, but the driver's license was from two years ago. He could've moved without registering again."

"But the information about the hospital? That he is to be working through the holidays?"

"It's what his academic record said but if he transferred or studied abroad the information probably wouldn't reflect until the end of next semester."

Francis meets Alfred's gaze in the rearview mirror.

"You do not believe that Alfred, do you?"

"I don't know, Francis. I believe we'll find him, and soon, but that he's here? In Montreal, or in Quebec? I just don't know." Alfred shakes his head and looks down at his coffee, then back up to Francis. "But I'm also not saying it's time to give up, maybe just that we can expand our search beyond the apartment building and this hospital and, I don't know, find some clues somewhere else."

Francis lets his gaze drop.

"Tomorrow is Christmas Eve."

Alfred, too, feels a sort of sadness.

"I know."

* * *

It is the 24th of December.

They decide to continue their schedule of apartment then hospital then apartment watching through Christmas, just for the sake of thoroughness. None of them have actually thought much about Christmas due to their North American traversing and none of them have anyone that would actually miss them in abandoning Christmas for a Canadian excursion. So, instead, they agree to gift each other by Alfred buying breakfast, Francis buying lunch, and Arthur buying dinner. Down the chain of wealth, Arthur notes intriguingly. He has bought everything so far, hasn't he? What's a dinner in downtown Montreal on top of that?

They're sitting in their rental car in front of the hospital with the Tim Hortons that Alfred bought sitting in their laps and, in an exception to the rule Arthur placed fast and hard on the first day he got in a car with Francis, quiet Christmas melodies are playing on the radio. And despite their dwindling hopes, despite spending Christmas Eve in a rental car in front of a Montreal hospital, they're actually a little content.

This feels right, somehow, so unlike the cynicism they felt yesterday. It's not ideal, but this is their family, isn't it? Their first Christmas together in what, they suspect, is a very long time. Looking for their fourth, refusing to rest on Christmas until they find him.

It kind of feels like the beginning of how things are meant to be, as bullshit as that seems.

"Hey, Arthur."

"What?"

"I read your Wikipedia page last night."

Francis snickers and attempts to hide a grin behind his coffee but Arthur sees him, Arthur always sees him, and stares daggers.

"I wasn't aware I had a Wikipedia page."

"What?" Alfred asks, scandalized. "You have so much power and you're not even aware of it?"

"I don't believe having a Wikipedia page is an accurate measure of my success."

"Yeah, it wasn't very long. It just talked about your education and the timeline of books you've written. You were a comparative literature major? How boring."

"Oh, I am delighted that's what you took away from my entry."

"Well, there was other stuff but not anything interesting. I could've guessed you live in London."

" _It has where I live?_ "

"Well, yeah, all-"

Arthur's just a bit disturbed and irritated so he doesn't notice at first the abrupt end to Alfred's thought.

"That's absurd, I want-" the opening of a car door stops him, catching him off guard. "Alfred?"

He doesn't register what's happening until Francis raises his voice, "Wait!" He scrambles to unbuckle his seatbelt and open his door after Alfred, leaving two now wide open.

When he thinks back, he was sort of wondering why Francis was stark silent.

So he too hops out of the car, still a few pages behind in what's actually happening. He looks after Francis rushing to catch up with the man walking in front of him. Then, his eyes follow Alfred walking across the parking lot towards the sidewalk that runs out of the front entrance of the hospital. Finally, he finds the target. A boy; he's relatively tall with a thick red coat on his shoulders and a hat with a knit pom pulling back most of his hair except a fringe of blond at his neck. His pants are medical blue scrubs and he walks briskly deeper into the parking lot, looking for anything like a medical personnel departing the hospital after a long shift leading up to Christmas Eve.

And then, he watches it all fall apart.

Alfred catches up to Matthew before Francis can catch up to him. He skids directly into Matthew's path, halting him as a bewildered Matthew takes a step back in surprise.

"Matthew, Mattie." Arthur has caught up enough that he can hear but is still far enough away that he's completely removed from the bubble that encases the twins. Francis also hovers, closer to them but just as frozen. Wanting to intrude, to fix their crumbling plans of protecting Matthew from Alfred's naivety, but unable to. This, it will probably fail. Matthew will flee and spend days breaking, confused and overwhelmed and feeling like a nightmare is coming true until he returns to them, but maybe by then it's already too late. There was a strategy when it came to this. It was supposed to be clean and gentle, not an immediate explosion of emotion and fear. Andromeda and the Milky Way are meant to join, but that doesn't mean there's not going to be a hell of a lot of destruction first.

Alfred doesn't touch him at first although Arthur can tell he wants to, wants to reach to him as if it were nothing. Matthew just stares at him from behind his glasses, creasing his eyebrows just like Alfred has done so many times before. Arthur can already tell Matthew doesn't know what to do, with Alfred or with himself, but surprisingly he doesn't turn inward and escape.

" _Je suis désolé, mais je ne connais pas-_ "

"Matthew," and this time Alfred does reach forward, unknowingly mirroring Arthur on that day behind _Sacré-C_ _œ_ _ur_. Palms in the hollows above his jaw, fingers crowning his temple, thumbs on the points of his cheeks.

Francis had flinched. Matthew does not.

"I know you know. I know it's buried deep inside that stupid head of yours that you know who you are. Matt, I've spent twenty three years living this dumb life without you by my side that that's wrong, that's so wrong that you're a motherfucker and you couldn't find me first. You are and have always been my only best friend, the only person who calls out my bullshit, the only one who makes sure I'm loved when no one else was remotely interested. Matthew, you fuck, you left me alone for twenty three years and I had to go to fucking Quebec to fix it? Now, stop this, stop looking at me like that and be my fucking brother again because I can't handle being alone anymore and I suspect neither can you."

And so, like a _fuck you_ to every war he's started and every rift he's nurtured between their family for the past two hundred years, Alfred returns their three to a four on a cold December morning, the 24th, 09:43.

Matthew takes a breath, still rattled, but smiles.

"Took you long enough, huh?"

And Alfred presses their foreheads together, wraps his arms around Matthew, and weeps.

* * *

 _MY KIDS._

 _It continues:_

 _I am definitely not a Canadian med student, as awesome as that sounds. If you actually do rotations during winter break that sucks and I'm sorry. :(_

 _So the only reason Matthew's a doctor is because he's a doctor in my Sims family. I figured it was the best possible justification._

 _Epilogue! Epilogue!_

 _Thanks for reading!_


	4. Epilogue

"Welcome, Merry Christmas. Alfred's in the living room but he's still a little crabby so tread carefully."

"I can hear you Matthew!" A shout comes from around the corner.

"Good, then maybe you can lose the crankiness!"

"I'll lose the crankiness when you stop trying to treat me!"

"You knew the rules, you oaf! I come down to take care of your useless person and you become my willing guinea pig!"

In response there's just a wail of frustration and Matthew smiles slyly at his guests.

"I think I'll have him house trained by the end of the month."

Arthur tuts and gives Matthew a disapproving look, but it's hard to hide his amusement.

"Now, boys, there's no need for bickering."

"Ah, yes, petty arguments are to be forgotten for the holidays," Francis sings behind him, sweeping in to give Matthew a hug and looking meaningfully to Arthur.

"Except for with you, then how would I ever survive?"

Francis pouts but abandons it shortly to focus on doling out affection to Matthew. He murmurs something in French, Matthew attempts to hide a laugh, and Arthur takes it as his cue to stomp out of the room dramatically and leave them to their secrets.

"Alfred!" He rounds the corner and calls for the boy, looking for his Anglophone compatriot. "Where has Matthew stuffed you away?"

"I'm here, Arthur, rotting away until death embraces me."

Sure enough, when Arthur enters the small living room Alfred is lying on the couch covered by a heap of blankets except for where a thick cast runs down the length of his leg. He looks just a tad irate and a whole lot miserable.

"Oh, poor lad," Arthur tuts but can't help his smile. Alfred looks so much more like an angsty child when under the watchful mothering of his brother and influenced by a powerful cocktail of pain medications.

Christmas was supposed to be in Paris this year but a call from Matthew early Saturday morning called for a fast change of plans. Alfred, in his eternal gracefulness, had taken a nasty spill down a staircase departing from work on the Friday evening before Christmas and completely shattered his entire right leg. Matthew, in grudging loyalty to his brother, left Montreal immediately after receiving the call from the hospital and drove the nearly six hours south to New York where Alfred has been living for the past three months. A cracked femur, broken tibia, and an absolutely obliterated knee cap required Matthew to stay and care for his bearish brother until Alfred had to return to the hospital for surgery later in the month.

What that meant was that Christmas in Paris was canceled and required relocation to Alfred's tiny apartment in New York City. On the phone when Matthew broke the news he sounded profusely apologetic, probably himself disappointed to not fly to Europe for the holidays, but also for ruining their carefully laid plans. But Arthur insisted, firmly, that canceling a trip to Paris was _perfectly_ alright.

So Arthur and Francis hopped on a plan, de Gaulle to JFK, early this morning to arrive in New York, also, early this morning. It took another hour drive via taxi to arrive at their destination, and they were properly exhausted, but excitement curbed any desire to pass out. They hadn't seen these boys since July.

"Now," Arthur starts. He hasn't delivered a proper condescending lecture in months and he's almost salivating in anticipation. "You're not being difficult for Matthew, are you? He's sacrificing a lot to care for you."

"God, he hasn't sacrificed any of his mothering tendencies! He won't stop prodding and poking, and he refuses to let me eat anything good! It's torture, cruel and unusual punishment to get his kicks! Unconstitutional! If I have to go one more minute without eating one of the Christmas cookies I know Matt keeps baking, I swear I'll mutiny." Alfred pushes his glasses off and onto his forehead then uses his wrist to dig deep at his eyes.

"Do you know what I think?" Francis strolls in with a smirk.

"What?" Alfred pulls his glasses back on and looks to Francis hopefully. Surely, a foodie of his caliber would never deny him Christmas staples.

"I think you are a _whiner_."

Alfred musters all his energy to look as disgusted and offended as possible.

"You don't know anything about me, Francis!"

"See?" Matthew says as he walks in. "Crabby."

Alfred groans, loudly.

"Belt up, Alfred. You're hardly in the Christmas spirit. You should thank Matthew for all he does for you," Arthur scolds.

"Bah humbug!" Alfred responds, childishly.

"Well, then," Arthur stands and brushes off imaginary dust on his pants. "I suppose we'll just celebrate without you." He glances at Francis and Matthew with a smirk and the three depart the living room, heading for the kitchen.

"I just pulled chocolate cookies out of the oven, they should be perfect for eating," Matthew sings as the leave.

Alfred wails.

* * *

Alfred remains grouchy for the remainder of the afternoon but they know better than to take much offense. Much of his belly aching is rooted simply in pain and, as Matthew repeats like a broken record, there's only so much medication Alfred can have. Luckily, Matthew promises his next dose is due within the hour and at that time Alfred generally falls into a blissful and _quiet_ sleep.

In the meanwhile, they're gathered in the living room, only the glow from Alfred's small Christmas tree lighting their conversation. Francis' delicious dinner sits low in their bellies and they drink alcohol to pointedly annoy Alfred and his medically mandated sobriety (annoyance of each other is their collective specialty). They discuss painting and writing and winter and politics and the evening is generally warm with Christmas spirit.

"Arthur, tell the children about the woman on our flight over."

"Francis, they are not our children, as much as you want to pretend they are."

Francis grins and reaches for Matthew's arm, a happy flush on his face. The two are sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall to the left of the Christmas tree with plates of cookies at their feet. Arthur sits opposite of them, also on the floor, just in front of Alfred's stretched out legs as the last defense between the medicated boy and the sweets that taunt him.

"Well, I do not know about you, but dear _Mathieu_ is practically my own flesh and blood."

"Just because you both speak French does not make you related," Arthur mumbles.

"Hey," Matthew returns, a grin also sliding onto his face. "You know nothing of our unbreakable bond!"

Arthur rolls his eyes as Francis twists his arms around Matthew, pleased with his response. Then Francis looks at Arthur over Matthew's shoulder, expectant look in his eyes.

"Oh, please. It was simply a woman who recognized me and got a little excited. That's all."

" _'That's all'!_ " Francis laughs. "This woman _attached_ herself to you! My poor Arthur was so flustered and embarrassed." He pulls his face into a serious scowl and attempts an imitation of Arthur's accent, " _'Please, madam, I_ do _have a flight to catch.'_ It was, truly, incredible to witness."

"Did you get her phone number?" Alfred asks from the couch.

"At least tell us you have her name so we can Google her," Matthew laughs.

"Hey, maybe she has a fan website! I would love to be in an Arthur Kirkland Fan Club, maybe I could be the President!"

"Now, boys, you know I have had that position claimed for years," Francis smirks at Arthur and the brothers let out a groan.

"Well," Arthur states flatly. "I'm glad we can all have fun at my expense."

"Oh, but my dear, what other fun is there to have?"

Arthur shoots Francis a glare, but there's no use. Francis is grinning, Matthew is laughing, and even Alfred has removed himself from pouting to smile and stick an uninjured toe into Arthur's scalp before he bats it away.

Arthur moves swiftly to change the topic and, before long, it has become late into the evening and their conversation dwindles from between four people to between three. As soon as Matthew notices Alfred's slowing eyelids he tuts and stands, walking to the kitchen and returning with colorful tablets.

"Al, you hoser," he flicks his brother's forehead for good measure. "It's time for night night."

"Don't tell me what to do, turd," Alfred grumbles, words slurred in sleep.

"'Turd'?" Matthew quotes as he hands Alfred a glass of water and the pills in his hand. "That's the best you can do?"

"I would appreciate if you didn't judge your dying and agonized brother."

"You're not dying," Arthur chimes in while picking up dishes off the floor.

"Says you!" Alfred retorts.

Matthew also moves to pick up a cookie tray off the floor but takes one off and hands it to Alfred.

"Merry Christmas, you ungrateful brat."

Alfred's eyes, as drowsy and unfocused as they are, light up and he reaches eagerly for the gift.

"Mattie," he says slowly. "You are my favorite identical twin brother."

Matthew rolls his eyes.

"I'm your only identical twin brother."

"Yeah, but I have lots of fraternal twins that still rank higher than you."

* * *

It's 23:00 already and the dishes are clean, the living room is picked up, and three of the four are ready to retire. Once he was given his long awaited pills Alfred was out within seconds and Matthew returned to the living room only to sigh. He pulled off his brother's glasses, briefly brushed his bangs aside, and pulled the blankets up to his chin. Oh well, another night sleeping of Alfred's comfortable bed instead of on the couch. Shucks.

Arthur and Francis have a small guest bedroom that serves them just fine. Odd for an apartment in New York City that they believe Alfred could afford, but as much as they want to ask questions, they don't. Arthur does think about it a little deviously, though. One day he'll stop footing the bill for all their plane tickets and then they'll see, they'll all see!

He says goodnight to Matthew, enveloping him in a hug then leaving him to Francis where the two talk for a while in French before Arthur can hear a pair of _bonnes nuits_. Francis comes in, settles to his left, and gives his traditional kiss and brush across the cheekbone of goodnight.

Their bed is not large, but it's cozy and warm. He figures both himself and Francis will sleep way beyond what is decent, only allowing jet lag to catch up with them when it is out of their conscious control. Tomorrow is Christmas Day but they have no real plans, just a few gifts to be distributed and most likely another day of stories at Arthur's expense or flaunting the mobility they all have but one.

He misses London, he always does, but he's here with his insufferable Frenchman and the two boys who are difficult to understand and silly in their ways but never fail to make Arthur feel immensely proud. London is his home and England is his loyalty but this family, the four souls of this apartment, are his purpose. Has maybe always been his purpose. When you are lost, no matter the time, I will find you, willing or unwilling, until time itself stretches into nothing at all.

He's between a life, dense and dark and full, and another, wide and blank and calm.

" _Joyeux Noël, mon cher_ ," Francis murmurs into his shoulder.

He doesn't respond right away, taking a moment to breathe, until Francis pinches him in the ribs.

"Merry Christmas, you twat."

Arthur is heavy, but with food and warmth.

* * *

 _C'est fini!_

 _I know this premise has been done by every corner of this community but I had never seen it rooted in FACE and I wanted to give them some of my very old but persisting love. Always the fam that occupies the largest chunk of my heart._

 _Thanks for reading!_


End file.
